The Assassin's list

by Scott Matthews

  Carson took another drink of cappuccino. When their eyes met, Drake could see Carson was considering what he was saying and didn’t like where it might take him.

  “I’ll see what I can find out about the ISIS guards, the hundred thousand and sit on my report for now. You find anything that’ll support your suspicions, let me know. Thanks for the coffee,” Carson said as he stood and walked out.

  Drake watched him walk to his unmarked Crown Victoria. He didn’t think Carson was convinced that Newman hadn’t committed suicide, but at least he seemed to be willing to dig a little more. It will be interesting, Drake thought, to see if he has the same impression of the ISIS manager. Carson’s bullying manner should allow him to see the man’s true colors, given what Drake had seen of Kaamil’s arrogance.

  Chapter 15

  It was ten after two in the afternoon and Kaamil hadn’t heard anything about Sam Newman’s unfortunate suicide from his source in the police department. His source at KOIN, the CBS Portland affiliate, hadn’t heard anything either.

  Kaamil stopped pacing in front of his office window, returned to his desk, and picked up his phone.

  “Get me that detective out in Hillsboro, Carson, I think. Tell them it’s about the Martin Research investigation and don’t let them tell you they’ll give him the message. I need to talk with him today.”

  He didn’t have time to play phone tag with the police. He had to report to Malik that he had the situation covered, or he would have to send a team to take care of the nosey attorney. If the man wanted to stick his nose where it didn’t belong, he was all too happy to cut it off, along with the rest of his head.

  “Sir, Detective Carson’s on line one.”

  “Detective Carson, Kaamil Sayf. I’m the regional manager of ISIS. I wanted to check in and see if you needed anything from me for your Martin Research investigation. I know you probably want to wrap that up as quickly as possible.”

  “I think I have most of it worked out, Mr. Sayf. I am curious about one thing, though. As I understand it, there are two people who have the code to turn off the security system at Martin Research, you and Sam Newman. Is there anyone else who might have access to that code?”

  “We have the code, certainly, we installed their system. There are several of my employees who have access to the Martin Research system codes in case there’s a need to get into their system for some reason, but it’s not something that’s just lying around in our office. Why do you ask?”

  “The system was turned off the night Mr. Martin’s secretary was killed. I’ll need the names of your employees who have access to those codes.”

  “You’re wasting your time if you think someone here turned off that system. How about Sam Newman? What’s he saying?”

  “Unfortunately, he isn’t saying anything. He’s dead.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “You knew the man, you know any reason someone would want to see him dead?” Detective Carson asked.

  “You think someone killed him?”

  “Could be. You going to give me the names of your employees with access to that security code, or do I need to get a court order?”

  “Don’t threaten me, Carson. Do your job. Stop looking for some nigger to pin this on,” Kaamil said, and slammed down the phone.

  Damn it, he thought, if the police weren’t buying Newman’s suicide, he’d just have to give the lazy cop a little more evidence to convince him. And now, there was clearly a need to take care of the attorney. Even if his death raised suspicion, they were too close to be stopped now by some snoopy counselor who wouldn’t let well enough alone.

  Chapter 16

  Drake was tired. Since his drive to the coast two days ago, it felt like a week had been crammed into the last forty-eight hours. After a tedious morning and most of the afternoon, he decided to head home early.

  He relaxed a little as he drove toward home, settling into the slow flow of traffic. On the weekends, traffic from the city to the winery tasting rooms was becoming so heavy the state was considering building a bypass and putting a toll booth on the old highway to take advantage of the area’s attraction. Drake hated the idea. The charm of the place wouldn’t last long if it became as accessible as a shopping mall.

  The red hills around Dundee and Carlton had vineyards before the Prohibition years forced farmers to switch to crops they could sell. The region flourished again after a couple of UC Davis pioneers re-discovered the area in the 1970s. Since then, the valley running south for a hundred miles was home to over two hundred vineyards growing pinot noir, pinot gris and chardonnay grapes that wine lovers couldn’t seem to get enough of.

  When he reached the old farming town of Dundee and drove past the tasting rooms flanking the two-lane highway, the fire station, and the lone store, he turned off on Worden Hill Road and followed it past the old red barn at the Maresh vineyard. His twenty acres were just around the bend. They rose above the road on a southeasterly sloping tract that caught both the morning sun and the ripening warmth of afternoon rays. Perfect for growing grapes, as soon as the old vines were pulled out and new ones planted.

  A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he slowed and turned left up the long gravel driveway of his property. Midway, an old barn hunkered down near a stand of oak trees. Beyond it, the driveway ended in a turnaround below the front of the old stone farmhouse.

  Behind the house was a building that had been originally built to house a small winery. There were steps leading down from it to a wine cellar that connected the winery building to the main house. Drake used the winery building to garage the 993 and Kay’s Land Rover LR3, but he didn’t keep wine around long enough to need a wine cellar. The wine cellar had proven, however, to be a handy way to make it to the house when it was raining hard.

  As he stepped out of the car, Drake heard Lancer charging toward him from the back porch of the house.

  “Hello Lancer,” he said, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. “How was your day? Run off any of those pesky deer trying to eat our grape vines?”

  Standing with his head almost to the tips of Drake’s fingers, Lancer stood still except for his tail. Bred to be a world-class personal protection dog, and with rigorous training for Schutzhund competition, he was the perfect home security system. Pity the poor intruder who mistook his calm manner and underestimated his violent capabilities.

  “Come on boy, let’s get you some dinner.”

  After changing into an old pair of jeans and a dark blue polo, Drake filled a dog dish with the high energy food Lancer favored and poured a glass of 2001 Beaux Freres pinot for himself. Watching Lancer devour his meal, he settled into his dark brown leather chair next to the river rock fireplace in the kitchen and thought about dinner. Maybe broil a salmon steak, steam some rice, and make a salad sounded about right, if he could muster the energy to get up and fix it.

  With a shake of his head, he got up, refilled his glass, and took a salmon steak out of the refrigerator. He splashed lemon-dill sauce over the salmon, started water to boil in a saucepan for rice and put the oven on broil.

  As he sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, he thought about his new client. Richard Martin was a good man as far as he could tell. He was doing important research, and thought he’d hired the best security service his company could afford. Still, his secretary had been murdered in his office. Now his brother-in-law was dead. None of it made much sense.

  He was missing something. The part of the puzzle that troubled him most was ISIS. If Sam Newman didn’t have a reason to shut off the security system, neither did ISIS. There had been no apology for the system malfunction, if that’s what it was, just an attitude that was strangely disconnected. If Martin Research was one of my major clients, Drake thought, I would sure as hell be more involved in the investigation. Maybe tomorrow he would see it differently, but right now he was trying to see to the bottom of a very muddy pond.

  After dinner, he went outside and sat on the covered front porch that
spread across the front of the house. From there, he could see down to the road and beyond to the Cascade mountain range in the east. To the south, the neighboring vineyards were identified by green rows of grape vines stretching across their acres. For him, it was like being at the beach, mesmerized by the waves.

  When the shadows started to lengthen, Lancer finished patrolling his domain for the day and returned to the porch. Drake was asleep in one of the two Adirondack chairs, his chin down on his chest. After standing next to his master patiently, Lancer finally licked his left ear and growled softly. His master opened his eyes and smiled.

  “You might cut a guy a little slack. You do this all day, if you want. I try it for a few moments, and you wake me up. I get the message. Tomorrow, when I’m rested and run your butt into the ground, you’re going to wish you had let me sleep.”

  At 2:00 a.m., Lancer was again trying to wake Drake, his muzzle nudging Drake’s left shoulder insistently.

  Drake was awake instantly. He recognized his dog’s signal there was a threat outside somewhere. He quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and his running shoes in the dark. From the dresser next to his bed, he took his Kimber.45 in its soft leather holster and stuck it in his jeans. He also put his Harsey tactical folding knife in his right front pocket. When he was ready, he extended his right hand palm down and waited for Lancer to touch his nose in its middle. When Lancer returned the ready signal, Drake snapped his fingers softly with the search signal.

  He knew Lancer would silently locate the threat, inside or out, and wait for his command before taking any action. It was up to Drake to decide what that action needed to be.

  Chapter 17

  Drake followed his dog through the house to the front door. Lancer stood pointing outside. From his still and steady stare, Drake knew the intruder was somewhere in front of the house.

  He reached down to pat Lancer and considered his options. He could wait for something to happen, turn on the floodlights, or slip outside to identify the intruder. Since Lancer rarely alerted him to the occasional black bear that wandered across the farm, it wasn’t likely the visitor was four legged. Using the floodlights would probably scare the intruder away before Drake had a chance to see who it was. That left slipping outside, and choosing action over anxiety.

  He turned and ran to the stairs leading from the kitchen to the basement, and then to the tunnel and the winery building. In less than a minute, Drake cracked open the side door on the north end of the building and peered out into the darkness. Over the pounding in his ears, the first sign of an adrenaline rush, he heard a car somewhere in the distance and a whisper of breeze in the tops of the tall fir trees behind the building, but nothing in or around his house.

  Thirty yards across an open grassy area, a small copse of oak trees stood on the northern edge of his property. From there, he’d be able to see ninety percent of the sloping ground in front of the house. Drake kept Lancer at the heel, and ran across to the oak trees. The short, early summer grass absorbed the sound of their movement and cushioned his knee when he knelt in the trees’ cover to search for the intruder. When he reached out to Lancer, he felt the raised hair on the back of his neck.

  Drake looked for any movement around the house. Lancer’s body stiffened against his leg and turned to the right, toward the gravel driveway leading up to the house. Drake focused his eyes in that direction and spotted three men moving single file in the grass along the driveway. With the light of a thin crescent moon, he could see that the two men in front carried rifles. The third man had something shorter, stockier, maybe a MP5 submachine gun.

  When the group reached the point where the driveway began its sweep to circle in front of the house, they paused for a moment, then separated. Two men broke off from the group to circle the house, while the third crept toward the front. Drake thought the third man was the leader, from the way he directed the other two with a wave of his hand. By separating, they gave him a chance to pick them off one at a time. He felt his training take over and, magnified by the rush of adrenaline, a sense of confidence he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He didn’t welcome the confrontation, but he knew his chances of prevailing were as good as theirs.

  Drake moved down through the oak trees, keeping his eyes on the man circling the house on the north side. When the man stopped beneath his bedroom window, Drake gave Lancer a finger-down, palm-back signal in front of his nose. Lancer would stay and protect his back as he crept forward to deal with intruder number one.

  With a slow, deep breath, Drake moved within a yard of his first target. The man was looking to his right and left, carrying an AK 47 at port arms. A bulge beneath its barrel identified a grenade launcher. Whoever these guys were, they weren’t here for a routine burglary. Nothing he owned was worth killing for, and no one knew enough about his military training to bring this kind of fire power.

  Drake leaped forward and drove his right fist into the man’s kidney. As the intruder bent backwards from the blow, he swung his left forearm around his neck and his right hand behind his head. When he was able to hook his left hand in the crook of his right elbow, he pulled back in a stranglehold. The man dropped his rifle but fought to escape. Drake pulled him backwards off balance and whispered in his ear.

  “Keep fighting and I’ll break your neck. Who sent you?”

  The man answered by throwing his left elbow over his shoulder at Drake’s head, violently wrenching his body from side to side.

  Drake tightened his hold, to choke out his attacker.

  “Keep fighting, and you’re going to take a long nap.”

  The man dropped to his knees and tried to pull Drake over his shoulders. The maneuver was a military move taught in third-world countries, and when he whispered “Allahu Akbar,” Drake realized the man was prepared to die before surrendering.

  “One last chance before I break your neck.”

  When the man threw his hands back to claw at Drake’s face, Drake powered his right forearm down and pulled quickly back on his left, breaking the man’s neck.

  As the body went limp, he softly snapped his fingers for Lancer to join him. The man circling the house on the other side wouldn’t stay there long before getting a signal to enter.

  Drake ran quietly across the parking area at the back of the house and peered around its corner. The second man was standing with his back to the house, looking to his left, waiting for a signal from his leader. In the shadows, Drake saw the man wore the same dark clothing and carried the same weapon as the first man. What were they after? Perhaps he could learn the answer from this second man.

  He patted Lancer’s head, signaled for him to stay and protect, and slipped around the corner of the house. The second man was a foot taller than the first, but slower in his movements. Drake had moved to within six feet of the killer when he turned and started to swing his weapon around.

  Before the man could warn his leader, Drake took a quick step forward, knocked the weapon aside and head-butted him on the bridge of his nose. While the man was still stunned, Drake slipped behind and applied the same stranglehold he’d used a few moments before.

  Refusing to be subdued, the man struggled to claw at Drake’s eyes. In less than ten seconds, he also lay dead.

  Drake ran back to the other side of the house, away from the gravel drive. If he could slip back into the oak trees and get behind the man at the front of the house, he had a chance to neutralize him and find out what this was all about. That chance was slim, however. The leader would be suspicious by now that something was wrong.

  Staying next to the back of the house, he ran until he again reached the stand of oaks. From there, he could see the third killer walking slowly toward the veranda in front of the house. He was twenty yards away, two first downs, about the distance he used to run to chase down quarterbacks who tried to run away from him before they were sacked. The only difference was this QB was armed.

  Instinct and old training prevailed. Drake charged at the ma
n with his.45 drawn and pointed center mass. As a Delta Force operator, he’d learned to run, shoot, and keep shooting until the target was down. Now, he just wanted to get close enough to gain the advantage and convince the man to drop his weapon.

  The man finally reacted to the sound of the charge, and started to turn around.

  Lancer was five or six feet to Drake’s right, ready to launch himself at the intruder when Drake gave the signal.

  “Lancer, kill!”

  Drake wanted Lancer’s attack to knock the man down. Once he was on the ground, he would have a chance to reason with him. But the man brought up his MP5 to shoot the closer of two moving targets.

  Big mistake, Drake thought. No one shoots my dog. He fired twice and dropped the man before Lancer landed at his throat.

  In the silence that echoed in his ears, Drake called off his dog.

  “Lancer, leave. Good boy,” he said, patting his head until he felt him start to relax.

  After he kicked the MP5 away and couldn’t find a pulse, he pulled off the killer’s black ski mask. He was a black man, mid-twenties, with a scraggly goatee. There was nothing in his pockets except a blue, prepaid Motorola TracPhone.

  Drake circled the house and searched the other two men, while Lancer sniffed their bodies. Like the first, both carried no identification and were also black men in their twenties. By the time he finished, the adrenaline rush hit and he willed his muscles to relax.

  He needed to stay focused. It wasn’t unusual to hear gunshots where he lived, but the last thing he needed was a zealous neighbor calling the police. He needed to decide what to do with three dead bodies.

  Drake listened for sounds of any remaining intruders. When Lancer stopped casting his eyes back and forth and sat next to his right leg, he started over to the driveway where a black Suburban was parked next to the old barn. He moved at a fast walk, with his.45 drawn, until he reached the right rear of the SUV. Satisfied that the SUV was empty, he opened the door. No light came on and the interior was empty. Whoever these guys were, at least they were smart enough to shut off the interior lights. They had even left the keys dangling from the ignition.